Cracking the Pavement
by all10xs
Summary: Not much made sense anymore. Running made sense. Solving crimes made sense. Sherlock's death... didn't.  Which is how Dr. John Watson, former assistant of Sherlock Holmes, found himself in a cafe, with a notepad, deducing.
1. Chapter 1

Thanks goes to thereichenbachfell on tumblr for beta-ing!

Disclaimer that I don't own Sherlock and things goes here, and enjoy.

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><p>John went back. He went back to 221B Baker Street, but he never stayed long. At most, he would sit on the couch a while, take out his laptop and maybe surf the internet. He liked to play a game where he could pretend, as long as he didn't look up, that Sherlock was there. Sitting, thinking, relaxing after putting on a new nicotine patch or five.<p>

It was a good game. Sometimes Mrs. Hudson would come up and say hello and remind him that rent was due and then chatter on about the news. They never talked about Sherlock. But then John would look over and he'd be missing. The illusion would shatter, leaving nothing but dust and empty silence.

Sometimes his mind would play tricks on him. He could swear on several occasions that he heard breathing. The breath of Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective. It would ghost through his brain; a wave, a soft comforting whisper, misfiring neurons. But then it would be gone.

Outside of the apartment not much made sense. He was lost again. Sherlock gave him purpose and that had been lost. He tried to get a job, not that he really needed the money anymore, Sherlock had taken care of that, not to mention Mycroft dropping off a cheque every now and then via one of his cronies. Mycroft never faced John anymore. Too cowardly.

He was alone once more.

He became more isolated than he'd ever been.

He would spend hours and hours just reading Sherlock's blog until he knew every word inside out. It would start as an accident, usually the address popped up on his browser and it would turn into a marathon read, every post detailing the correlation of pace to height, the different types of nervous shakes...

And he would wake up the next morning at 3 in the afternoon, his laptop battery dead and his face marked from the way he fell asleep. His eyes would be dry and tired, too emotionally exhausted to cry. He hadn't cried at anything in months.

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><p>Molly kept trying to keep in touch. She would be sure to drop by and talk with him for a while in his small studio flat. Sometimes she'd bring food to cook. On one such day, she looked at him curiously, "John, you know I believe you. I believe him."<p>

"Yeah. I know, Molly, you've been such a terrific friend over the past few months. I know- I don't say it, but thank you." John smiled weakly.

"I know you can't get over what happened. No one can. Not after someone so important disappears." she said, handing him a mug of coffee.

"Disappears. That's an odd wording for someone who's... dead."

Molly said nothing, just stirred her tea.

"You think he's still alive." It wasn't a question. It didn't have to be. John knew the feeling of hope, tucked safely in a corner that he never touched.

"Don't tell me you don't too. After that girl? Irene? And you and I know what he's like. You especially."

John sighed and put his coffee down. "I know. I just... It's impossible to imagine him actually dead. And I've got all this- this hope... and I- I can't." He sighed deeply, staring at the faux wood pattern on the table. Molly took his hand from the other side of the table and they sat in silence once again until she left.

He stopped going to therapy soon after. She was trying to make him let go of Sherlock, stop thinking of him, stop remembering him. But how could he forget the thing that made him so much better? How could he forget a man that made the world better, in his own way?

On his way home, on the busy streets of London, he grabbed a paper for the first time in six months. He turned to the first murder story he could see. Librarian, killed in cold blood at noon in the stacks of a major public library. No surveillance- _wiped_. No witnesses- _threatened. _No murder weapon or signs of a struggle- _she knew beforehand. _

Which is how Dr. John Watson, former assistant of Sherlock Holmes, found himself in a cafe, with a notepad, deducing.

Deducing like Sherlock used to do.

He needed to see the body.

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><p>"John? Is that you? Oh I'm glad you're in I need a hand with this tap. it's getting a might leaky!"<p>

The voice of Mrs. Hudson welcomed him the moment his key was in the lock. He very nearly smiled.

"Yep it's me. And... I think... I'll be here a while, actually," John told her slowly. "I'm not going to move things around much, I just need to be here, I think."

"Oh, well it'll be lovely to have you around again, dear. Now, could you grab a wrench from my tool chest if it's not too much trouble?" She gave him an understanding smile and that tone that could make him walk to the ends of the earth if she said please.

He followed her into the kitchen and began to get to work.

"So now what brings you back, love?" She asked a few minutes later. John reached under the sink on his back, wrench in hand.

"Oh. Just. Feeling better."

A lie. obviously.

"Oh. Good. You know, I've been wondering about the new neighbors. I heard them shouting last night! Oh, what a row! I never could stand for such carryings-on..." John tuned her out, focusing on the task at hand, but already his the ice that had overtaken his heart was beginning to thaw in the slightest.

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><p>About an hour later, when John was finally making his way upstairs (without tea, no thank you Mrs. Hudson but I could go for some nice homemade food for later), he realised he'd missed several important texts.<p>

_Must talk. MH_

Oh Mycroft. Really? After all this time? He usually didn't warn John unless- oh.

"Hello Mycroft."

He was seated on one of the more comfortable chairs, thumbing through a book he clearly was not reading. His umbrella was rested against the armrest, even though it was a perfect day outside.

"Figured you might be coming back here. I am sorry for intruding..." John hadn't forgiven him and let him know with a withering glare that he didn't plan on it anytime soon.

"Regardless. I've been informed that you've taken an interest in the Britsh Library case." Mycroft turned to face him (and his glare) and closed the book.

"None of your business what I get up to, is it?" John said sharply. Mycroft merely smiled.

"You are a British citizen and a _friend-_of course it is." Mycroft stood and went to put it back on the shelf, making a show of taking the care to do so.

"I am not telling you anything, Mycroft. Not what I ate for breakfast, not which cab I took, and certainly not anything I take an interest in." John met his gaze and kept his voice even, highly reminiscent of their first meeting.

"Well, regardless. If you need access to _certain_resources, you can feel free to let me know."

Mycroft stood and met his eyes, shaking his hand. "It's good to see you again, John. And... I am sorry." John thought he saw a shimmer of sadness cross the man's face, and then it was gone.

John collapsed on the nearest couch as soon as he hears the door downstairs click shut. He was back. There was no use playing the game anymore. Sherlock wasn't here. He knew it.

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><p>From a great distance, a figure intently watched the live feed of 221B. John Watson was home.<p>

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><p>He found himself with Molly at her work the next day, doing research into the case. She smiled patronizingly and he looked at her.<p>

"Don't make that face. I know, I'm not even half as good as him, but... The world isn't the same without him. I've memorized his blog, I've read all the papers he's got lying around the flat. The very least I can do is provide a few suggestions, do my best. Don't need to worry about expenses now, I can at least remember him."

"John. It's not that. You're doing a great job," she assured him with a sincere smile.

"I can see it now. If he were here. Well, I wouldn't be touching anything. He'd just have me there. What did I even do?"

Molly shrugged, "You helped! And when you weren't helping... you watched him. And he watched you."

"He watched me?"

"All the time. Maybe you're the only other human he's ever really understood well." Molly adds the last bit as an afterthought, almost a question. Her phone went off, but she ignored it.

"He understood everyone." John retorted, feeling it obvious. Yes, he could see John, he could understand John, he could predict John.

"Yes, but... you... didn't _bore_him like everyone else. He could tolerate me or Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson, but you... were different." Molly smiled. "Anyway, I've broken down the..."

John followed what she was saying quite easily. He nodded, and took notes of everything to go through it later. Like he would have done, but of course John wasn't a genius.

"Okay, I think I have enough data to sort through for now, if I need anything else I'll let you know. Anyway, what are you up to tonight?" John asked. He received a large grin in answer.

"I think I have a date. Of sorts," she said, giggling. John congratulated her. She of all people deserved to be happy. _You deserve to be happy too, John, _a small voice reminded him gently.

He returned to Baker Street shortly after, with a cabbie who spoke the poorest English in London. As he approached the door John noticed a note slipped under it. Perhaps for Mrs. Hudson.

He picked it up and went inside. Plain white paper, merely folded, addressed to John. STOP is all it said.

"Well tough luck because I've got nothing left to lose," John murmured, walking up the stairs to his flat. He unpacked his notebook, and retrieved the relevant papers and notes Sherlock had written, probably intending to have them published- he never wrote what he remembered unless it was for the boring people.

Three hours later, he thought he had a lead.

An hour after that, he disproved his theory.

Early into the morning, he spilled coffee on himself and on page 75 of _Inferences into the Chemical Signatures of Various Fibers_. And then came up with two more theories, only one of which was actually plausible.

The theory held strong into the morning. He texted Lestrade to look for the key missing clue that would mean he was right.

By the next morning, 11 am, he had awoken, amidst his mess of notes and papers, to find three missed texts.

Two from Lestrade- _Found. Chased the guy down. Simple case after all. Good work, Watson._

_-He'd be proud of you, I think._

From an anonymous number. - _Excellent deduction Doctor._

A shiver went down his spine. Someone was watching him. Of course they were- especially after that note last night. But why would they still find him interesting unless-

"Sherlock is alive."

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><p>"Sherlock is alive."<p>

A dark chuckle. The sound of fingers on the keypad of a phone.

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><p>He went to Sherlock's grave the next day. He was determined. He had brought flowers, of course, as was customary, with a note tucked inside, folded up small. The note said simply "I miss you."<p>

Until you put it under blacklight. He'd written the whole thing to be seen under blacklight, a remnant of their last case together.

_If you read this I am glad. If not you, then oh well, I suppose. I know you realise I still believe in you. I always have. I want to know what I have to do to get you to come back. Are Moriarty's men watching still watching me? Are you? Did your "death" not convince them? I need to know what to do, Sherlock. And I suppose I miss you as well. Not that my feelings would matter that much to you._

_Find a way to let me know. Make it something I can recognise. Please. I will be watching._

He said nothing at the grave, just placed the flowers and hoped he was right.

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><p>John searched Sherlock's name that night, his heart aching at the pages with titles like "SHERLOCK'S A FRAUDDDD". But then, he saw a trailer on some video site for a sort of conspiracy film, titled simply "Holmes was Real". Most things in it were flat-out wrong, but they did get a fan-captured film of him picking out a murderer by his shoes.<p>

The caption of the video read "Sherlock was NOT a fraud, but was FRAMED by Moriarty. If you've seen any of what he could do, you would believe him too. He was a genius. PRINT OUT A MISSING POSTER. ASK EVERYONE YOU KNOW. LET'S FIND SHERLOCK."

John sat back in his chair, just watching the video over and over.

"Those shoes. YOU! You're wearing the shoes of the killer. The treadmarks match, the distance between your thumb and forefinger match the killer's. The way you hold yourself suggests self-confidence issues, not in physical strength, obviously or you would have shot her instead. You killed Maureen Gibbons and you are going to jail. LESTRADE- OVER HERE!"

John felt himself smile for the first time in months. Oh yes, he missed this man. And he was alive. These people were right. At first, he'd dismissed his hope as denial that his best friend had jumped off that building. But he knew. _Please Sherlock. Be alive. I need you so much._

He had to be.

He replayed the scene in his head- Of Sherlock standing on the top of the hospital, phone in hand, talking to John. The day his world stopped.

Mobile in hand.

_Where was his phone?_

Immediately he grabbed at his own mobile and texted Molly. No need calling, they could be overheard. _Where was Sherlock's phone?_

The response came quickly. _Not on him. It must have been on the roof?_

"Damn." John swore.

Who could have had his phone? Lestrade? No, he would have mentioned something. This was bigger, more fanciful. More... Mycroft.

Suddenly the image of Mycroft in the flat made more sense. If Sherlock was, indeed, alive, then his death was faked, then he would need friends in high places to make sure it looked real. John sprang to his feet, feeling the adrenaline rushing through his veins. Mycroft had sat in this exact seat, reading, and then _put the book back_.

He jumped over to the nearest bookshelf, the one that Mycroft had put it back on. He pulled the book out gently and felt the warm feel of victory as the dim light reflected off the small plastic gadget.

_He had Sherlock's phone._

Instantly, he grabbed it and then, remembering the possibility that he was being watched, he moved to the safest place in the flat- the kitchen. He'd once overheard Sherlock say that it was the best place to be if one thought that they were being watched from outside.

John pressed the power button and the screen lit up. Suddenly his hope didn't seem far-fetched at all.


	2. Chapter 2

Hey guys, thank you so much for your support on just ONE chapter! You all are way too nice (Not complaining though!). My acknowledgements once again to the thereichenbachfell for the beta!

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><p>The screen of the phone in John's hands jolted to life, a default background, most of the files obviously having been wiped. But there was no doubting it- this was Sherlock's phone. The keypads had been worn down from all the texting he was so fond of. There was a scratch on the top left corner where John remembered a sword had once hit it (long story, and, as their adventures went, rather dull).<p>

There were two numbers in the contacts: John's and Mycroft's. The people who knew he was alive, obviously.

John could only hope there was a purpose to all this secrecy. Preferably one that resulted in his best friend being alive.

_This means he would have been lying. He's been hiding from you, _a small voice in his brain said insidiously. He shook the thought away. _He doesn't want to hide. I know him. He doesn't care. He just wants Moriarty gone. He wants to make sure the spider is out of his web._

John opened the menu and navigated to the messages. He noticed there was only one message, a draft that said only: "Found."

It was addressed to Mycroft. Odd. If Moriarty's men were to intercept it, surely they would recognize the number as Sherlock's. John figured they'd probably thought this through well and sent the text regardless.

It was less than a minute before he received a text back. "Good. Go for a walk."

John sighed. He thought for a moment and grabbed his jacket and his handgun (for good measure) before he walked out the door into the damp, cold London evening.

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><p>The moon was out now, and its reflection was cast along the shining black pavement. The dank smell of London in the rain was everywhere, a strange mix of odours and conflict. John zipped his coat up tighter and took a right on the sidewalk. Soon a car would pull up, he knew, and it would take him to an obscure location so that Mycroft and he could speak properly.<p>

_What if he's there? _John thought, nervousness in his chest rising. After all, Sherlock had been dead- at least to him. He'd seen him fall off of Bart's and his broken, bleeding body get dragged away. And it was all a fiction. He sighed. Yes, he was angry, but he understood. Moriarty was far too dangerous.

John was aware that a large car was slowing down beside him. The door opened, and John got in.

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><p>Mycroft's cronies had walked him from the car into a small office building that looked- on the outside- to be unused. It had a beautiful, if slightly outdated, front lobby, and the lights were dim. He stepped inside and was at once summoned by yet another henchman of Mycroft's up the staircase and down a hall. The hallway was away from the windows, so naturally the lights in this area were on and not dimmed. Down the hall and through a door sat Mycroft at a desk. This room had been renovated, so obviously this place had been in use for quite some time. This room had windows, but they seemed to be tinted. Probably a recent addition. John raised his eyebrows as if to ask <em>What's with all this?<em>

He already knew the answer.

"You obviously have been following along, so you understand the need to be discreet. Please, sit down." Mycroft said, in a tone less smug than his usual. He waved at his employee, who promptly shut the door, leaving them alone. John sat down, and Mycroft smiled.

"John. Lovely to see you again. I'm glad we can finally speak openly."

"Cut to it, Mycroft. Is he alive?" John said, the anger suddenly boiling up as if from nowhere. He had to remember to remain calm.

Mycroft hesitated, his eyes analysing John as if he hadn't made his mind up over the matter. "My brother... is... more alive than he has led you to believe."

John leaned back in his chair and looked down at the floor, trying to decide his feelings on the matter. He was happy, yes, of course. He was angry at Sherlock, at Moriarty, at Mycroft for keeping him away. He was nervous, definitely. After all, Sherlock wouldn't care if people thought he was a fraud. He would, however, care if there was another reason to hide. Namely, that Moriarty's group was still together.

"Moriarty?"

"Sherlock saw him kill himself on the roof."

"So?" John knew Moriarty was almost as cunning as Sherlock, and about five times more dangerous. And, like Sherlock, a supposed death scene would mean nothing.

"...Indeed. We have intelligence that suggests that Moriarty may yet be alive. In addition, the roof was cleaned shortly after Sherlock's jump and no evidence was found to show that Moriarty was even there."

John shivered. That was definitely Moriarty's style. Even if he was dead, the world wouldn't know.

Mycroft considered him for a minute, "Moriarty had snipers. They would have killed you had he not jumped."

John's brow furrowed. Sherlock had jumped to save him? "They were going to kill me?"

"I believe Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade were also being watched," Mycroft added.

John nodded. It definitely made sense. Obviously if they knew Sherlock was still alive they would most likely send the snipers out again._ Which is why the situation is even more perilous than before._

"This is like a twisted, murderous chess game." John said after a while.

Mycroft chuckled. "Yes, I suppose. It is a delicate matter."

John straightened in his chair, "You've called me here for a reason. What is it you need?"

Mycroft looked down at his desk, "Well, aside from merely letting you know that my brother is not dead and remains in extreme danger, I thought we could have a chat about the state of current affairs."

"Being?" John was persistent. Obviously there was something Mycroft had brought him here for. And as long as it required Moriarty being violently killed, he had no problem with that.

Mycroft opened the top left desk drawer and retrieved a file. He opened it, and pushed a picture of an unfamiliar residential house in front of John.

"We need to find Moriarty again. You are to suggest to Lestrade that they raid the building. There is a high-profile cocaine smuggler, no doubt sponsored by Moriarty's group, taking refuge here. Although take caution. They could be gone within the week." Mycroft also grabbed a small bag containing a small SD card, "Here is the card with the pictures. It also includes a coded message, informing him of the truth. You are to give Lestrade the key. It is, of course, touchingly simple, and my brother was dismayed, saying that this could insult even Lestrade's simple mind. His words."

"Why go through all this? You know that code could be cracked by Moriarty's men."

Mycroft smiled, "It will only work on Gregory Lestrade's work computer. Any other computer will not show that picture."

John nodded. "Done. Next. Do I get to see him?"

"He and I discussed this. He seems to think of himself as emanating an aura of danger and wishes you to stay away. But I think we both know how appealing that must sound to you, Doctor." Mycroft's smug grin was back.

John felt a shadow of a smile ghost his face. He felt his determination rise.

"Please. I need to talk to him."

Mycroft rose from his chair and turned his back, opening a door behind him. "You know, He's been insufferable without you. He was very keen on you figuring this all out by yourself, and I'm quite glad you lived up to his expectations." Mycroft gestured to the open door. John rose. "Down the staircase."

"Thank you, Mycroft." He stood and walked through the door, which concealed a small hallway with a staircase. He could hear soft strains of violin being played.

He couldn't help it. He smiled and went after the detective as he'd done so many times before.

As he approached, the playing stopped. He could hear the instrument being set down. Sherlock stood with his back facing John in a small sitting room, which it had obviously only been turned into a few months ago. It had essentials for living, but nothing too extravagant. John wondered if Sherlock had asked for a separate laboratory to keep busy.

It took a moment, but Sherlock spoke first. "Hello." He turned slowly to face the newcomer.

"Hello," John said, somewhat breathlessly. He hadn't realized his words would vanish. He took a breath, nervous. "You're alive." It was all he could think to say: stating the obvious.

"It's good to see you, too, John." Sherlock smiled reluctantly, as if he wasn't sure if John would be angry. John smiled back, a warm feeling of comfort overtaking him. "I thought I might have a few more days before Mycroft would let you in, but I must be annoying him more than usual. He thinks you being around makes me easier to stand..."

John only looked at him, not broken, not bloody. Sherlock, standing in his lounging clothes, completely and utterly alive.

"I've- er- missed you. Flat's not the same. And- you know- I thought… you were dead," John said. He'd never wanted to hug someone so much in his life. But Sherlock didn't do those things.

Sherlock walked over to him, a curious look on his face. Suddenly his arms enclosed John in warmth. It took John a moment to realise what had happened, and then he was hugging back. "Sorry." mumbled a voice against his shoulder. Sherlock pulled away and stepped back and in a very timid voice said, "I've… missed you too."

John shook his head, feeling genuinely happy; a feeling he hadn't experienced in far too long.


End file.
